


I Would Find A Way

by strawberrykait



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Angst, Explicit Language, Explicit Sexual Content, F/M, HP: EWE, Infidelity, Partner Betrayal, Psychological Trauma
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-05-22
Updated: 2011-05-22
Packaged: 2017-10-23 17:04:02
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 16,967
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/252713
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/strawberrykait/pseuds/strawberrykait
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>During just one week, Hermione Granger realizes she’s been hiding from her life since the war as it collapses around her.</p>
            </blockquote>





	I Would Find A Way

**Author's Note:**

  * For [saphire phoenix](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=saphire+phoenix).



> **Disclaimer:** In its use of intellectual property and characters belonging to JK Rowling, Warner Bros, Bloomsbury Publishing, et cetera, this work is intended to be transformative commentary on the original. No profit is being made from this work.

When it was all over – well, it’ll never really be over, but when the Second Wizarding War ended in the ruins of Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, nothing seemed to change, not in that exact moment, nor in any moment over the next several days. It was as though we were just between battles; exhaustion was assuaged by knowing we had to be prepared for whatever came next.

Every survivor was left wondering, Now what?

The fear of uncertainty is something that I will always carry with me. Not knowing how it would all end, if any of us would survive the end, if it ever came, tainted all my Hogwarts days. The fear carried me through every holiday back home, worriedly awaiting any scrap of news from those left behind. Even when the three of us were together during those days, the unknown persisted, growing stronger, finally culminating into that final year as we hunted for Horcruxes, aware we were hunting death.

Back then I wouldn’t allow myself to dwell on the fear, but sometimes it was the only thing keeping me going, knowing that every day we were that much closer. Not to winning the war, but to being _finished_. Then when we finally were, nothing seemed to change. The unknown persisted.

Not enough time has passed between then and now; everything is still so fresh in my mind, though none of it is worth revisiting in any detail. But I will. I have to. I remember what stood out the most in those early days: the people who were suffering, needing attention, the buildings and homes to restore; _lives_ to restore. It wasn’t anything like what you see in the Muggle movies: a heartening montage of families reuniting, life wounds healing while Enya vocalized in the background. Instead, it was backbreaking, heart-wrenching work and misery. Each moment cost us dearly, but we were on autopilot, using whatever momentum remained to continue the daily struggle. What else was there to do but go on?

None of us really discussed things beyond the surface.

Harry and Ginny fell back together, naturally. Please don’t misunderstand; I am happy for them. They deserve some happiness of their own, and time when they can actually love one another. Still, I can’t help what I think. Really, how often do people fall in love with their childhood sweetheart only to slip out of it quite suddenly? How many men and women over the course of history have come together in times of war, fuelled by anxiety and fear, their hearts throbbing from trepidation, only to misinterpret it as passion?

How many survive without the adrenaline? What happens when it dissipates, when the tension is ultimately relieved? Where do you find yourself then? We’re always left alone.

Even so, the necessary restoration – the physical, emotional and psychological recovery that each one of us was preoccupied with for the next five years – was a place in which you could easily be, and could stay, lost.

We were all lost, together.

 **TUESDAY**

The alarm screeched incessantly nearby, a never-ending announcement of another take on yesterday. As the seconds ticked by, it grew angrier, louder, determined to wake its mistress, its sole job in this terrible world. Hermione, however, was already staring up at her ceiling, and had been for several hours before it ever rang out.

Her routine was unerring. Up early, spot of tea and toast, bit of manual tidying up followed by vacantly staring beyond the flat for a few, then quickly dressing and exiting into the world. Making the same journey, down the block to the tube out of North Kensington she arrived at the Ministry of Magic, where she completely submerged herself in the concerns of magical creatures that could very well fend for themselves, but apparently had no desire to do so. At least not to Hermione’s standards. It was a job she had yearned for most of her life, one in which she assumed she would make a difference in the world, leaving it a better place than what she found. Something she could be proud of, knowing that without her, things would only get worse. Instead, she dreaded even leaving her flat most mornings.

Hermione had been known for being brilliant and a war heroine in the Wizarding world. However, here at the Ministry she was just another up-and-comer with plenty of time ahead of her, someone who shone possibly a bit brighter than the others, but glitz loses its appeal when kept down in the mud too long.

Stepping into the main atrium of the Ministry, her heart began to race. They had wanted to erect a statue of Harry Potter, the Boy Who Defeated You-Know-Who, in the atrium to replace the wretched one the Death Eaters had brought in. But Harry, being Harry, refused. Instead, they commissioned a statue reflecting all of the fallen heroes as a reminder of the cost of freedom, so the Wizarding world would forever cherish what they’d died for.

Whenever Hermione marched past it, her pace slowed considerably as the faces of Fred Weasley, or Professor Lupin and Tonks looked down upon her. Her heart clenched tighter than a pauper’s purse strings every time. Forever smiling, her friends were frozen in a happier moment, like the others etched in stone, never aging. It made her think things she would rather not, most times. Seeing Dobby near the top was even worse. The impact Dobby had on her life, not to mention on everyone who walked past him day in and out, whether or not they were aware, was something she’d never forget. She wanted so badly to focus just on his sacrifice, but it was futile to separate Dobby’s death from Bellatrix Lestrange and that terrifying day at Malfoy Manor.

The oxygen vanished from her lungs seconds before her vision altered, the too bright sunlight fluctuating from blinding to murky and back again, the edges fuzzy and warped. She shut her eyes, desperately concentrating on breathing in and out, in and out. Instinctively, she stretched her hand out for support, gratefully finding the very statue that caused her panic attack.

She recovered after a moment, her body straightening away from the fountain, depending solely upon herself for balance. Her feet marched towards the lifts without looking back. Surreptitiously, she glanced around for any concerned bystanders, thankfully finding none.

This one came on fast, she thought, continuing as though nothing had happened. Within the lift she pressed the palms of her hands against the cool wall before leaning back and focused on her breathing again, ignoring the floors that whizzed by. Finally arriving at level four, Hermione pushed through the small crowd trading positions on the lift and stumbled into an empty alcove away from her department’s entrance. Her hands shook while she administered a quick dose of Pepper-up Potion, her own enhanced blend, before heading into work. By the time she was sitting at her desk, her personal items stowed beneath her and her quill in hand, she was right as rain.

The day had progressed like an ordinary Tuesday, filled with small fires to put out and seemingly endless exasperations. She flicked her wrist in a half-circle and the memo twisted and folded into a sharp airplane before zooming out into the corridor. Watching it depart, Hermione caught a glimpse of an unwanted visitor and hurriedly reached for the next matter to attend. Through the corner of her eye, she watched as he stood in the doorway, surveying the department with an air of inherent superiority.

When Draco Malfoy entered a room, he commanded the attention of all present with his stride, full of purpose and determination, and with his grey eyes. The very lightness was forceful enough to pierce beyond his pale complexion, demanding and insistent. With nothing more than eye contact, Draco Malfoy conveyed absolute dissatisfaction, reluctant assent, or more often, limited tolerance. This was something Hermione could not hope to explain to anyone fully, which irritated her further because she seemed to be the only person aware of the phenomena of his expressions.

Despite any analysis, one could not simply reduce Draco Malfoy to a set of features, no matter how sharp or fierce they might be. Rather, one had to acknowledge the culmination of every aspect – his stride, his sneer, the quality of his attire, his manners, or lack thereof, the minute curvature of his lips when he fought against something humorous – all of these features and more adhered to one another and became Draco Malfoy. Even then, people tended to miss the most important aspects. Or so Hermione thought.

There was never any reason to discuss what made him Draco Malfoy to anybody, so she was on her own on this topic. Although, one time she did mention her observations to the boys while having a drink. Luckily enough, when Harry gave her a questioning look, Ron was quick to explain away her comment, arguing that all Malfoys were so vile, anybody would naturally try to suss out the reason for it. He punctuated this rationalization with a sloppy kiss and a grin for Hermione, she remembered perfectly, for it was then that she realized how much time she did spend considering Draco Malfoy.

Every item of clothing, every cutting glare, and every elongated vowel drawing out his boredom or contempt was carefully calculated to produce an effect. And there was nothing Malfoy enjoyed more than acknowledgement for his efforts.

“Well, if it isn’t Ms. Do-Gooder herself.”

“Thought they’d emptied the rubbish bin,” she sniffed to cover her cringe, refusing to look up from her parchment. “My mistake.” Even though she tried her best to ignore the bureaucrats whenever they paraded through, offering nothing but egomaniacal funding for absurd projects, Hermione was always hard-pressed to fully ignore Draco Malfoy. She chalked it up to his peacock routine, leading such parades, flaunting his galleon-coloured feathers. Some days she considered it resentment from her childhood, or perhaps it was as simple as the harsh smell of his hair cream that wafted like a pungent cloud. Honestly, it was stronger than a lady’s perfume, and twice as obnoxious.

The smell grew unbelievably stronger when she saw from her peripheral that Malfoy didn’t catch the dismissal. When he dropped down onto her desk, nearly toppling her inkpot across her current assignment, she sighed in exasperation. Knowing that Malfoy would not leave until he’d had his say and completely disrupted her morning, she looked up, expectantly. He wasn’t even looking at her.

“Clearly the Ministry is desperate for employees,” Malfoy drawled. “Why else would they hire someone like you, Granger?” His taunts were rarely worth responses, so she continued to straighten items on her desk. Hermione flinched at the smiles aimed her way out of the frame on the corner. Noticing her jerk, her guest reached out for the offending object and turned it around to see.

Inside were three teenaged versions of Hermione and her two best friends, back before the beginning of the end, when they were still able to cling to a little happiness. Hermione noted Draco’s sour expression as he held the photo, smirking at him but keeping her sardonic thoughts about his nonexistent happy childhood to herself.

“Aren’t you going to demand a reason for my presence, Granger?” The frame was returned, face down.

“Actually,” her voice high pitched and rushing, “I was too busy pretending you didn’t exist to even bother wondering why you do anything at all.”

Malfoy tsked. “Is that really how you should address the chair of the House-Elf Liberation?” Hermione groaned, sinking towards her desktop, the quill and ink forgotten. Beneath her breath, she cursed. Having him on the committee truly would be _H.E.L._

“Surely you want to impress upon me the importance of their welfare, and _dazzle_ me with whatever trivial statistics you’ve gathered over your lifetime,” he goaded with a broad smile, “because everyone knows you’ve nothing better to do.”

To say her glare was unwarranted would be a lie, but still she attempted to control her displeasure. Hermione took a small breath and sat up, prepared to at least be pleasant, since she was incapable of kissing his arse like he desired.

But the snark that erupted couldn’t be helped.

“Malfoy, if I had all the time in the world to go alongside all the galleons I could claim, I would use it to help every defenceless creature or person, not just house-elves. I would make a difference in the world, leave some mark of improvement, rather than do my damnedest to bring about its destruction. I would find a way to use whatever I had to benefit others.

“And I wouldn’t waste any of my time prattling on incessantly to someone supposedly too low to bother acknowledging, as you seem wont to do more and more in your old age,” she sniffed, catching up to her anger, knowing just how treacherous her steps had become, but unable to stop. She flung her hands up, wiggling her fingers at him. “So enlighten me, _Mr. Malfoy_ , on how you’d like me to _dazzle_ you with knowledge you neither care about nor are willing to do a damn thing with?”

Hermione blinked, feeling only a smidgeon of guilt for what she released onto a financier. Her mind fluttered to her unseen co-workers, sitting in their cubicles, undoubtedly listening to every word. Regret took root. Before she uttered a single word, either an apology or further malice, Malfoy removed himself from her desk, muttering, “Save it, Granger.”

And he was gone.

She blinked again, watching as his robes swished out of her cubicle and down the corridor where she could not see further. That was entirely unprofessional, she worried, yet not completely unwarranted. Slumping back down to her report, she knew she hadn’t won this battle and dreaded their next encounter.

Just before leaving her department at the close of day, certain she was the last to leave, Hermione pulled out her Pepper-up. There was always a raging river of wizards and witches running through the Ministry of Magic between the hours of seven in the morning and six in the evening. Numerous fireplaces and lifts were available off the main hall, but somehow they never seemed to stem the flow. Hermione hated her job for this reason. There were too many people marching about, scurrying in some cases. The steady, frantic mass made her slightly claustrophobic, which is why she preferred the stairs to the lifts most days, but the worst of it hit when she reached the landing to atrium.

Three deep breaths and in she dove, weaving her way through the cacophony of people, her peers and the betters, all hurrying home to loved ones. Absently, she toyed with the bottle in the pocket of her slacks, comforted by its presence. She matched their pace, if only to keep from drowning, and in just a few hundred seconds she was outside and breathing freely. Many tipped their hats or called her name in passing, wishing her a good evening, but Hermione only responded marginally, focusing instead on the Apparition point down the alleyway.

“Destination…determination,” she finished with a sigh, “deliberation.”

Before reaching up to knock on the door, Hermione heard Molly Weasley bustling about inside, the clatter of dishes and bodies were no match for her voice. Quickly, Hermione raked her fingers through her hair in a vain attempt at taming the bowtruckle’s nest of it all. They knew she’d arrived, having set off the wards at the Apparition point, but still she knocked.

“Hermione, dear, come in,” welcomed Molly as she wiped her hands down her apron. “Just set your things down over there. You’re just in time for supper.” Mrs. Weasley always had a way of welcoming people into her home: delicious food and a pleasant, plump smile. She was the opposite of Hermione’s own mother. Not to speak poorly of the woman - the two matriarchs had different approaches to affection, as well as nutrition, is all. Having grown up under two dentists, sweets were a rarity, whereas here in the Burrow, nearly every dish was sure to please your sweet tooth and add to the waistline. Hermione always felt her best in the yeasty bread warmth and unconditional love of the Burrow.

She did as instructed, and then worked her way through the crowded kitchen towards the sink, insisting on helping in any way. Mrs. Weasley refused, happily, so she waltzed back to the dining table, which was quickly filling. Surprisingly enough, Arthur Weasley was already seated at the head of the table. Despite the fact that they both worked at the Ministry, Mr. Weasley was rarely seen milling about. His work tended to occur most often in the field, as he put it, which Hermione believed unfortunate for herself and their co-workers.

Nevertheless, he loved his work and always found some useful Muggle bit to carry back to his work shed, poring over the mystery it held. Many nights he had begged Hermione to sit beside him, gleaning her vast knowledge of do-dads and whatnots before and during the meal, but not tonight. At either side of Mr. Weasley sat two of his sons. Her late arrival left her a seat next to George.

Even as charming as George Weasley was, it was sometimes difficult to find someone to sit next to him voluntarily, other than Angelina Johnson, his fiancée. And with good reason. The passing years and hardships had not hindered his humour. Hermione sighed, resignedly. He noticed her brief hesitation and watched as she approached, a devious smile reaching slowly up to his eyes, ending in a wink. With her chin sticking out and her bravest face on, she pulled out her own chair and smiled back.

“Evening, love,” greeted George, turning halfway in his seat. The pair exchanged small talk about work. After the war ended, Weasley’s Wizard Wheezes had a brief time of closure, mourning the loss of Fred, George’s twin, business partner, and forever cohort. When he was ready, the store reopened but it lacked the joy it once held for George. Every day was a reminder of his solitude, until Ron came in one afternoon.

Ron was by no means a replacement for Fred, but he quickly picked up the pace of the store, and before long, things were looking up. It was serendipitous, if not exactly how they had envisioned, but both brothers were happy again, furthering their relationship beyond what would have been otherwise possible. Hermione was happy for them as well.

Thinking of Ron, she leaned forward, around George to where Ron sat, engrossed in a quiet conversation with his father. She watched him laugh, his head shaking back and forth, stopping when he caught her staring. Ron smiled openly. Most of her life, Hermione had been in love with Ronald Weasley, but it wasn’t until near the very end of the war that either of them acted. But when they did…

She and Ron had dated for nearly a year before he finally proposed. It wasn’t a shock for any of them, least of all Hermione, nor was anyone surprised when she agreed. The real wonder came when four years later they were still only engaged. Although they loved each other, and had discussed living together, at her suggestion, their relationship continued on the same level and never changed.

An outburst from the opposite end of the table followed immediately by Molly’s bellowing reprimand drew all eyes, as well as laughter and obscene hand gestures. Such was dinner at the Weasley’s, but Hermione wouldn’t have it any other way.

When Molly finally sat down to eat, she almost immediately rose again, flicking her wand back towards the living area. From around the corner zoomed a small piece of parchment, landing nearly in her plate. “Listen to this, from sweet Fleur,” she began. Across the way, Ginny Potter’s eyes rolled for Hermione’s benefit. The girls shared a secret smile, recalling how much grief Fleur Delacour-Weasley had caused Molly so many years before, only now to be called such endearing nicknames. Hermione suppressed a giggle as Ginny feigned vomiting into her dish.

Catching Molly’s glare, Ginny behaved herself, her hand moving beneath the tabletop to search for Harry’s. Hermione flinched, and then turned away. She feigned interest in the letter from Bill, Fleur and Victoire, and the news that they were expecting again. Molly continued to gush about how beautiful little Victoire was and how happy she was that Bill was going to have such a big family, but Hermione stopped listening. Instead, she stared off into nothing, blotting out as much as she could without drawing notice.

Talk of children worried her, especially during family meals, when guilt was difficult to swallow along with spoonfuls of shepherd’s pie. No one seemed to notice tonight, though, and dinner continued in a rowdy manner for some time.

Hermione was already at the door when Ron called out to her. She slowly turned back, returning his smile. His arms came around her, their weight tremendous on her neck and shoulders. Ron pressed closed-mouth kisses against her lips as she smiled wider. With minds of their own, her fingers traipsed lightly across the span of his back, up and down again, until they found the curve of his backside and grew insistent. Almost immediately, Ron changed in her arms, stiffening and pulling back.

Her smile fell away with his arms. Hermione waited, watching Ron glance around the Burrow for any witnesses. There was something akin to mortification in his eyes. It was silly of her, she knew, to push him further, so she turned back towards the door.

“Are you coming by later, then?”

Her hand twitched on the handle, balking at the audacity of such a question, after being reprimanded as such. She could only shake her head no, hunching her shoulders as she walked out. Ron didn’t follow or say good night.

The night air was cool against her heated cheeks as Hermione reappeared near the edge of Muggle London. Without missing a beat, she set off for home, her shoes clicking against the pavement in a rhythm to match her internal reprimand. In seemingly no time at all, she arrived, kicking out of her shoes, flinging off the trappings of the day with abandon.

Hermione huffed then stopped her struggle. Although she’d been living in this flat for some time, it still had a lonely, neglected quality, which Hermione seemed incapable of reversing. She noted the time and grumbled, dragging herself into the loo. Behind the mirror cabinet, she took down an aspirin bottle, shaking two in her mouth. She cupped both hands under the faucet to drink them down, and then splashed a second filling against her burning face. While one hand reached out for a towel, the other closed the cabinet back. Hermione was startled by the woman looking back.

“Hopefully twenty-three won’t look as bad as twenty-two,” she muttered, studying the increasing lines edging her eyes, her mouth, and the wanness of her complexion. Under the fluorescent bulb, her freckles stood out in relief, their brown tint offering a small apology for her otherwise pale face. Hermione raked her hand through her hair, pushing it off her forehead, only to watch it fall back into place. She shrugged. “Analysis never helps anyone in the toilet, Hermione.”

She retraced her steps in the hall, picking up after herself, and finally entered her bedroom. Living in Muggle London, she’d returned to her old ways of doing things, like housework. It gave her a small satisfaction knowing she was capable of doing it manually. There on her bedside she placed her wand and reached for a nearly empty vial, swallowing it quickly then burrowing under the covers. A few seconds of shifting about, finding the most comfortable spot in her enormous bed was completely wasted when she threw back the duvet. Carelessly she grabbed her wand and extinguished the ceiling light, inviting the full dark to swallow her whole. Soon the sleeping draught took hold and everything truly fell away into nothing.

Kisses marked a sensory trail across her neck and shoulders, that while firm and wet, left only a light memory on her skin. Hermione moaned. She could feel them but couldn’t respond. He either didn’t mind or didn’t care.

Why is it so cold, Hermione thought as she reached back for the covers, only to find she was not in bed any more. She was startled by the crackling leaves beneath her cheek, imprinting themselves so that she would never forget when she crushed them. Absently she brushed the remains away, taking in her surroundings. Too much dark wherever she looked made it impossible to stay calm, but she tried.

Hermione breathed deeply and that was when everything fell into place. The mildewed vinyl and the absence of warmth were joined by the pungent taste of burnt beans. The area brightened slowly as recollection grew stronger and panic set in. They were in the woods, on the run.

From somewhere nearby she heard something growling. Not something, but someone. She recognized the voice of Fenrir Greyback howling out her name, coming for her. Desperation clutched in her throat. She had to remind her legs how to run, run, run. Into the tent she ran, calling out for Ron and Harry, but it was empty. Hermione was bewildered, flailing about the tent then back into the echoing woods surrounding it, knowing he was out there, waiting for her.

It became harder to breathe, the air thinning, her chest compressing further in a familiar, not uncomfortable way. This is what it’s like to die in your sleep, she realized, struggling against everything. Invisible arms gripped her tightly, attempting to smother her. With a scream, she woke, clawing into the arms surrounding her.

“Shh, darling.” His voice was roughened with sleep yet pacifying. She relaxed, despite her frantic heart. Blindly her hand crawled out towards the bedside table, searching for the vial, forgetting she’d emptied it before and flung it away in disgust. His longer arm pulled hers back under, folding against her chest. Feeling his exhale against her neck further comforted Hermione, knowing she wasn’t alone, and confirming she wasn’t back there again. She was rather here, with him and okay.

Behind her, she could feel his arousal rising in almost the perfect position but for the hindrance her of nightgown. When his grip relaxed, she rolled towards him, finding his mouth waiting for her, welcoming. The taste of Firewhisky was faint yet familiar, waking her fully. In the back of her mind she thought about how much stronger she would need to make the next batch of sleeping draught, then wondered if Living Death wouldn’t be better after all. So caught up in her thoughts, she was surprised when the first kiss was placed on her bare knee. Potions would have to wait until tomorrow.

His hands swept down the back of her calves, caressing and squeezing alternately. She could feel his breath drag across her bare skin, raising the fine prickly hairs that had grown back since her shower the morning before. Then his mouth replaced his hands, soothing the skin and drawing out the ache that was just beginning to pulse. Hermione spread her feet apart, inches at a time, bringing her knees up and splayed. He knew what to do, crawling further up, bending down to lick the underside of her thigh. She took a breath and held it, anticipating his slow journey to where they both wanted him to be.

His fingers crept beneath the leg of her knickers, tugging them gently, coaxing Hermione to lift up. She looked away, knowing what he would do with them, which seemed much more intrusive than what came next. When he had his fill, he always tucked the pair into a pocket for later. A flush bloomed across her cheeks before he returned between her thighs, settling down to work. Hermione breathed deeply and let him have his way.

The red light of the clock rebuked her in the night, as if to rhetorically ask, “Do you know what time it is?” They had fallen asleep almost immediately after, and now it was time for him to go home. She shoved him once, twice, and finally he stirred, both hands jumping up like Frankenstein’s monster. For a moment, she felt like laughing, but thought better of it. Instead she asked if he was ready to leave.

Even though it was so very dark, and she refused to look directly at him, his incredulity was masked poorly through his groggy state. Still, he got up. She pretended not to hear his mutterings while he dressed in yesterday’s clothes. As he came around the bed to her side, she rolled away into the warm spot he’d left. They stayed like that for what seemed forever, until at last he spoke clearly.

“Your bed is always quite cold this late at night,” Draco grumbled. But he did as she asked. Like always.

 **WEDNESDAY**

Hermione flung herself gratefully down into the booth, concentrating on her breathing as she willed her pulse to slow. Although she put in enough hours to earn two lunch breaks, it was often difficult to find time to take even half an hour, especially with the throng of people in London hoping to scarf enough food to sustain them the remainder of the day.

Harry, on the other hand, was unperturbed by it all. Often Hermione puzzled over him, amazed by how much he had endured, and more so that he was happy as he was. When she was really feeling down, she almost resented him for it. It took serious effort on those occasions to concentrate on the moment and leave the past where it belonged, but so many things lingered keeping her ever mindful of it all. Thankfully, distractions were easy to come by.

After ordering, Harry and Hermione filled each other in on their lives since their last lunch date. When the timing and the affairs of the world were just right, they managed to spend lunch together once a week. However, things rarely worked out that way. Depending on how long it had been, Harry could certainly forget about eating, trying to answer all Hermione’s questions about work. It wasn’t often that he finished a meal before she did. Besides, most of what Hermione did all day seemed tedious to most people, Harry included, so she tried to keep the conversation about him. Still, like the best friend he was, he always asked.

Harry was poised for greatness in the Auror department, receiving personal attention from Minister Kingsley Shacklebolt whenever possible. He didn’t like to talk about it, though. In that regard, Harry seemed more fitted to be an Unspeakable, but he loved his work. For the past five years, he had been hunting the Death Eaters who had gone into hiding after the Second Wizarding War, and had a near perfect record. It wouldn’t be long before he was promoted, Hermione predicted, sometimes without a smidgeon of umbrage, her knowing smile counteracting Harry’s humility.

Lately Harry’s conversation was peppered with exasperation. He and Ginny were trying for a child with no luck. She was suddenly uncomfortable again, thinking about Molly’s rosy cheeks and longing sighs from the night before, and how, without meeting any of their eyes, everyone had been pointedly looking between her and Ron. Sometimes it felt like a judgment on their part, demanding to know when they would settle down and have a brood of their own. All of the Potters’ talk of frustrations and hope kept her forever feeling like a disappointment. It wasn’t so much that her career prevented her from starting a family with Ron, but rather the older she was, the less desirable the idea became. Hermione flushed furiously as she recalled her after dinner affair and chose to change the topic to the daily news.

“Can you believe the rubbish the _Prophet_ prints?” Harry scoffed, tossing the paper he’d brought along down on the ground between them. Hermione was frowning at her lunch, once again wishing she had brought something better from home, then recalling she would have to buy groceries first, and conceding to the wilted club sandwich in her hand for another bite. She leaned far over to see beyond the table, looking for what bothered Harry today.

The first thing that caught her attention was a centre photo of Draco Malfoy and his rumoured fiancée, Astoria Greengrass, smiling like royalty. The by-line mentioned some charitable donation made by his family, and the photo of the happy couple had been taken the night before. Hermione bristled.

 _Charitable, my arse. Everything with Malfoys involved benefited themselves, if anyone at all._ As though hearing her thoughts, the photo Draco raised one eyebrow before smirking up at her, his left arm drawing Astoria even closer. She really had to restrain herself from sticking her tongue out like a juvenile.

When she commented on the article and Draco’s smug demeanour, Harry stretched across the table to redirect her to the article that offended him instead, located near the bottom corner, exclaiming, _You-Know-Who, Followers, Behind American Tragedy_. Intrigued, she read on, her enjoyment of the sandwich renewed.

 _Nearly one year ago, the United States of America suffered one of their greatest tragedies in New York City, the effects of which still reverberate through the world today. Over one-third of the Muggles living closest to the World Trade Centre are now suffering from PTSD, post-traumatic stress disorder, a form of depression that developed anywhere from days to months following the horrific catastrophe._

 _Experts on mental health say that PTSD is triggered by witnessing or living through an attack, although it is most commonly associated with persons during wartime. The common side effects of PTSD include anxiety, bursts of anger, severe depression, nightmares and other sleep disorders. This potentially crippling anxiety and depression, which has weakened both the Muggle and Wizarding communities in America and here in Britain, continues to keep the world on edge._

 _Worse is knowing who was behind the attack. International news groups attribute the 9-11 attack to a terrorist group called Al Qaeda, yet there are many who believe that You-Know-Who’s followers, known collectively as Death Eaters, were among the terrorists on all three airplanes, a Muggle mode of transportation, destined to destroy American society._

 _Sources claim that such an attack was planned by You-Know-Who himself during the final years of his domination, but was delayed by his demise. Harry Potter, the Boy Who Lived, the Chosen One, was unavailable for comment, but those close to him maintain that he was, in fact, aware of such a plot and it spurred him on to triumph against He Who Must Not Be Named..._

The article held Hermione’s complete attention, offering Harry the opportunity to eat at leisure. As she skimmed over the absolutely ridiculous parts, seeking out bits about the disorder they mentioned, she experienced a flash of clarity. Pieces that were seemingly forever disjointed began to come together, and then it was gone, as though they had physically bounced off one another, returning to the murky recesses.

It was well past eight o’clock when she finally made it home, flustered yet determined. Straight away, she moved to the bookshelves of the living room, her finger flying faster than her lips could read the titles aloud. Ever since lunch, she was preoccupied with a notion. Instead of brushing aside the pestering idea, Hermione practically ran the entire way to her neighbourhood library, desperate to know more about PTSD. Something was there, she knew it, because it was too familiar to disregard.

The North Kensington Library was a successful stop where she determined that she did, in fact, suffer from the disorder. Reading the description on the page was like looking into a mirror, one she had been ignoring far too long. Many people, like those Americans mentioned in the _Prophet_ , only endured short-term symptoms, but there were those who went untreated for years, progressively worsening. The idea was almost as troubling as the knowledge of it all.

Every book she found recommended therapy and medication.

While Hermione was raised by Muggles in the health profession, she hesitated at the suggestion. She reasoned that she ought to be able to resolve this herself. Not being able to solve your own problems … being dependent on someone else to navigate the inner workings of your mind and tell you that your way of processing this is wrong, and by extension _you_ are wrong … becoming reliant on drugs just to make it through the day, was the worst personal failing she could imagine. All she needed were the details and she would make herself well. When her subconscious threw up reminders of the Pepper-up in her pocket and the sleeping draught in the cabinet, she obstinately ignored it, choosing instead to see how the Wizarding world resolved the issues of anxiety and depression.

Hours ticked by and her frustration outgrew the increasing mound of dissatisfying books. The brilliant idea that came to her, that surely some witch or wizard concocted a spell for anti-anxiety, had dimmed long ago, yet she persisted. She had to. Everything she came across – and there were quite a few references, to her delighted surprise, especially since she was sure she had read each of them at least once cover to cover – listed terrible side effects, either on their own or in conjunction with mandrake root, which was a primary ingredient for Pepper-up. From what she read, her choices included nausea, palpitations, vomiting, headaches, the growth of a literal third eye, insomnia and cardiac arrest.

No thank you, she thought, I suffer enough of these as it is.

Then there were the potions that not only took a seemingly inordinate time to brew but also listed a meter-long warning about the adverse reactions with sedatives. The only method that came close to being a solution involved aromatherapy. Hermione scrunched up her nose at the notion, envisioning Professor Trelawney, her incense and scarves disguising the sherry on her breath.

It was as though no one else in the Wizarding world had ever gone through what she was living with. That seemed very likely to her at the time.

She spent what little remained of the night huddled over her books and cauldron, attempting, in vain, to find a solution.

 **THURSDAY**

As the sun crept through the gauzy curtains of her living room, Hermione gave up. Her only choice in the matter was to try one of the five potions she had narrowed the results down to, and in order to do that, she would have to relinquish the Pepper-up and the sleeping draught, full stop. Her plan was set, as shaky as it was, to begin immediately. With a sudden surge of hope and relief, she rose from the floor, heading for her bedroom. Just thinking of her soft, heavy duvet and plump pillows had her yawning. After approximately fifteen minutes, just enough time for her mind to settle, her body to relax into the comfort of her warming bed, and for utter relaxation to take root, the alarm went off.

The morning only got worse.

During what normally would have been her lunch hour, had she not overslept and ultimately been late for work, Hermione overheard a conversation. Recognizing the voices, she sidled to the edge of her cubicle wall, hunching slightly even though she was short enough not to be seen over the top, to hear what was said next.

“Ministry officials are as good as dead, and I’d like to see them replaced with bright, shiny new ones.”

“Ones that fit conveniently into your pocket, Nott, of course. Ones that like to have bright and shiny things to carry in their pockets?” Draco’s laugh was quite distinctive and her hackles rose in response. Having him here was just the cherry topping to her horrible day, and she had just seconds to return to her desk, disgusted with their exchange, before Theodore Nott and her annoying lover appeared.

“Well, well, this _does_ make the trip worthwhile,” breezed Nott as he leaned against the doorway, smirking lasciviously. The eye roll was justified as well as mildly satisfying, but it failed to persuade the pair to continue on to wherever they were originally headed. Instead, both men fully entered her cubicle, Nott making as though he meant to sit down in the obligatory chair across from her.

Draco, on the other hand, stood rigidly near the doorway, avoiding eye contact. It wasn’t difficult to assume he was miffed about the other night, but Hermione had no regrets. On rare occasions did she allow him to stay a full night after they had sex, so why he was particularly angry now, she neither knew nor cared. Her attention turned back to Nott as he decided against sitting and stepped forward instead.

“Oh, if it isn’t the gallant heroes, back in the day,” he deadpanned, turning the photo around. Hermione had been charitable long enough.

“Did you actually want something, Nott, or are you just trolling the Ministry for kicks?” Apparently, her barb was as dull to her unwanted visitors as it sounded to herself, so she chose to stick to glaring hotly, hoping they would get the hint.

She was wrong.

Nott snickered, twisting to face Draco while holding out the photo from his chest carelessly. She was less concerned with whether he broke the glass and more with what he would say next. Hermione watched the pair warily. A forgotten tidbit rushed back to her.

“Oh, that’s right,” her voice thick with mockery. “You’re facing charges of domestic abuse - a penalty of up to five years if convicted, isn’t that right, Nott?” She offered a saccharine smile. His scowl wasn’t half as sweet.

“Acquitted, Granger. Do try to keep up, especially with concerns of your own department. Thought you were supposed to be the brightest witch of our age,” Nott replied, making faces at the teenage trio, who were taking turns instigating and ignoring him in return. “Yet here you are, squirreled away in a forgotten cubicle, within the Ministry. Sure didn’t amount to much, did you, Granger?” He tsked, carelessly dropping the photo face down. She considered finding a charm for the glass, since it apparently annoyed so many former Slytherins around here to treat it roughly.

“Or is it Weasley now? You know, there are so many of the bastards running around this place, it’s hard to keep it all straight!” He nodded towards Draco, who sneered unenthusiastically. Hermione spared him a second’s glance then jerked backwards when Nott reached for her hand. Instinctively she grabbed her wand, but did not aim it at him. “No, I don’t see a wedding band, but at least the poor man was good enough to buy something of a ring. Is there even a speck of a diamond there, Mudblood?”

To her right she heard Draco sigh in a manner only a Malfoy could pull off: a slow, tedious exhalation through his nose, but Nott missed it completely, braying like the jackass he was. Really, this was getting to be quite annoying, and she was about to insist they leave, or leave herself, when Nott continued down another line of thought.

“You know, Malfoy, I heard a rumour about Weasley…and _you_.”

Hermione’s pulse quickened. For a minute, she imagined Draco tensed also, but she couldn’t bring herself to look.

“Tell me if you’ve heard this one,” Nott began, warming to his story, lifting his hip to perch on her desk. All eyes were on him, waiting, as he’d intended. “Rumour has it … he got one over on you, during the battle at Hogwarts. Slugged you good in the eye. Of course I wasn’t foolish enough to stick around, once the old battle axe shooed our House out.

“Was that why you didn’t make it out, Malfoy? Knocked silly by a poor ginger somewhere in the castle?” Hermione noticed the slight tick in Draco’s mouth, the closest to a response, but it wasn’t enough to humour Nott. Obviously, Nott didn’t need anything other than himself for a good laugh. “Honestly Malfoy, didn’t think you were such a lightweight! Bested by a _Weasley_?”

“Leave it, Nott,” she seethed, gripping her wand tighter as she struggled not to use it. He only laughed louder.

“Oh no, now I’ve done it! Riled up the Mudblood to your defence! Whatever shall I do to defend myself?” His laughter died out but his smile turned sinister as he approached her, his wand also drawn. If half the stories spread about Nott’s recklessness were true, she might be in a fix, but she refused to grant him the satisfaction of seeing her fear. He stepped closer, slowly, menacingly.

“Have you any idea how easily disposable you are? Just a flick of this wand,” he whispered loud enough for only the three of them to hear, “and poof! No more Mudblood.” There was clarity in his eyes that sent chills down her arms. She was acutely aware she was surrounded by them, sensing Draco’s approach from behind. Her pulse went erratic, adrenaline pumping furiously through her body, urging her to _move_. But she couldn’t even open her mouth.

 _It’s Nott, for God’s sake. What could he possibly do, at the Ministry, no less?_ She swallowed compulsively, struggling to remain calm.

Having Draco behind her didn’t help much, either. A small part of her that she resented wanted to believe he would stop Nott, should he go too far. A very small part. Draco’s temper was easily lost, despite outward appearances, plus he was already angry with her from the other evening. There was no guessing what he would do. Or allow Nott to do. She lowered her wand slowly.

“See there, Granger,” Nott smiled maliciously, “You _can_ be bright when you make an effort!”

Hermione released the breath she didn’t realize she was holding when Nott laughed again, punching Draco on the arm as they departed. She never took her eyes off Nott. Her heart refused to settle back into her chest. Nott paused just outside her cubicle, spinning around for a parting shot.

Well, Malfoy, you lied about the Department of Magical Creatures being boring.” Nott slowly flung his eyes back at Hermione, apparently watching for any sign of indignation from the witch. “You meant to say it was _tremendously_ boring.” Then they walked away. She had already sat back down, her palms leaving sweaty impressions on the wood, when she remembered that Draco never even looked at her.

Thankfully, the next handful of hours passed by uneventfully, but her stress level was still quite high. She couldn’t shake the memory of Nott’s threatening face, so calm and too close. Hermione would have given just about anything for one of those anti-anxiety potions she’d read about the night before. She was too frazzled to work any longer.

Frustrated beyond belief, Hermione marched out of her department, intent on taking a break far away from everyone and everything demanding her attention. Her desperation for a pick-me-up was horrendous. She wasn’t stupid; she knew it was the encounter with Nott mixed with the withdrawal, but truthfully speaking, she wasn’t expecting it to be this bad.

She had made it down several corridors, somewhere on the eighth level, when suddenly she was wrenched through an open doorway. Hermione was slammed against the far wall, her attacker pinning her in place with his body. Her heart couldn’t take anything else. The adrenaline rush whirled defensive tactics through her mind while attempting to sense where her opponent was weakest and where his wand was, especially since she could not feel it. She struggled vainly, testing his hold and finding it strong. It was when his hitching breath suddenly stopped and his tongue laved her face from jaw line to cheekbone that she nearly collapsed. She knew who held her captive. The shock of his attack was enough to stop her heart, but all her fear quickly shifted into tension, anticipating his next move.

Draco used his legs to push hers apart, hindered by her skirt, her thighs stretching the fabric. His left hand reached up into her hair, fisting it, tugging her neck back so that he could latch onto it, while the other groped her thigh, squeezing then releasing the fabric and leg. She began to pant for an entirely different reason.

He spun her around, her hands flailing until finding purchase on his chest and in his hair, clutching him in desperation. Draco stared down at her, still not meeting her eyes, focusing on her blouse as though imagining what was waiting and heaving beneath. Usually Hermione laughed at his fascination with her breasts, as she did with any man who ogled them as though they were aliens or made of gold. But just like gold, Draco appreciated them, holding them, fondling them, so she welcomed his attention.

He bent his knees, almost down to her eye level, to better admire them, each hand hefting a breast. This all lasted for less than a moment, before he rose up to kiss her hard, accidentally knocking her head against the wall. He chuckled, and she did, too.

Draco backed them away from the wall and towards the empty desk, kissing her the entire way. Hermione’s fingers began working on his buttons, undoing each roughly, giving up on the more difficult ones and opting to yank instead. He smiled against her mouth, playful and inviting. She wanted him more than she could ever remember wanting him. The sound of buttons popping, flying, hitting the tiled floor below, seemed very loud to her, but she didn’t care, having finally found his chest. As much as she ridiculed the men, she had a thing for nipples herself. She broke away to see and he leaned back to give her what she wanted.

As she stood there, admiring her plaything laid out before her on the desk, he watched her in turn, but she ignored that. Draco spared her a moment’s look before pulling her down on top of him, holding her upper arms, controlling her movements completely. Even though she was unhappy to be denied anything, including movement, his forceful kiss made up for it. At first touch, his teeth scraped the front of hers and she started to laugh, until she had a flash memory of him cursing them with _Densaugeo_ in fourth year. She flinched, and he noticed immediately, his eyes popping wide open and his hands relaxing almost enough to let her go.

No matter how angry he made her, or vice versa, there was always an underlying sense of concern on his part, as though he was awaiting her rejection. Some days she actually considered it, but never when he gave her that look. It was enough to bury the memory of past humiliations, if only for now, and concentrate on feeling him beneath her.

“Hmm,” she murmured, smirking at the freedom he gave. His fingers flexed against her as one hand abandoned her arm for her hair. Slowly he leveraged her back down for an almost chaste kiss, quickly followed by another, and another, each growing more demanding than the last, his tongue teasing her lips apart to welcome him inside her mouth.

Draco’s mouth was always warm and wet, making her acutely aware of how dry the anticipation of his kiss made hers. She tried to match his intensity. Hermione was mildly surprised at his tenderness, especially considering how angry he had seemed earlier. Her eyes opened, expecting to see his clenched lids, but instead the grey irises startled her. There was something in his look, something raw and unbidden, something she couldn’t quite describe other than that it made her very uncomfortable. Without a word, with just his cool, grey eyes, he was demanding things of her that she would deny existed, even to Ron.

A rush of guilt wearing Ron’s appalled face jarred her up and away, clambering off the desk that she had no idea she’d climbed upon. Draco rose on his elbows, both his shirt and pants undone, staring at her with surprise. “What was -”

“Shh!”

Over Draco’s whispers she was certain she’d heard someone out in the corridor, just beyond the office door, and she motioned as such. Quickly but not quietly, they scrambled to right their clothes, both hovering near the door, desperately listening. Draco cursed under his breath, and if she could have, she would have shoved him away for all the noise he made. Something inside told her she had heard Harry’s voice outside.

After a moment of held breaths, hearing nothing but the white noise of an emptying Ministry, Hermione exhaled, her entire body collapsing with the release. Beside her, Draco leaned back against the wall, his head tilted back, throat bare. The vulnerability of his pose affected her and she mentioned whom she thought almost found them. Instantly his guard was up and resentment poured from the look he gave.

“So what if it was?”

Hermione’s dropped jaw and bulging eyes practically screamed, Are you insane. She attempted to leave, however he wasn’t having it. Carelessly he wrenched her away from the half-opened door, slamming it shut in the process. Horrified, she watched for someone to investigate the noise he was making.

“What are you afraid of, Granger?”

“I would have thought it plain enough for even you to understand!”

“So what if precious Potter found us here? What would it matter?”

Hermione took a steadying breath, astounded by his sheer stupidity, then answered. “To begin with, I’d likely be sacked if found having sex in the workplace. Not to mention the absolute embarrassment of it all.” Her voice became shrill, despite her earlier caution. “And to top it all off, he’s by best friend! It goes without saying that he would not only be hurt by what he saw, but that he’d also tell my fiancé.”

Draco scoffed, his mouth curling up as though tasting something foul just before spitting it out. He bent nearly in half, retrieving some article of clothing she couldn’t make out in the darkness. “Honestly I don’t give a toss what scar-head thinks or sees or does. He’s no concern of mine. And while we’re at it,” Draco snapped, facing her again with such hatred radiating off him. “I’m _bored_ with this! You use me whenever you get an itch you can’t scratch-”

“Excuse me? Who pulled whom-”

“Playing both sides here-”

“ _Just_ as engaged as I am, if not more-”

“A selfish little bitch, thinks she’s-”

“Yes, that’s right! Go ahead and call-”

“You’re acting like a mad woman, blowing hot-”

“Ought to be used to it by now. I do hope Astoria’s-”

“Why do you always do this? If you’re not attacking me-”

Hermione growled. “You’re the one who started this!”

“Wrong, Granger! Wrong!” His ferociousness silenced her as if he’d slapped her. “ _You_ started this. _You_ jumped _me_ that night and you’ve kept me jumping ever since.” His eyes burned through the short distance, narrowed and so fierce it took tremendous effort to break from his glare.

“Not anymore,” he hissed, shoving past her to leave. “I’m done.”

It was rather late by the time Hermione emerged from the Ministry, looking and feeling worse for wear. After Draco stormed out of the empty office, she cried. It was all too much, the entire week. In her mind, she tried to blame everything on him. He brought Nott around and let him intimidate her. He seduced her just to prove a point, that he didn’t need or want her. Reason told her that crying was just the body’s way of releasing all the tension, but she was so worked up and hated him so much that she told reason to shove it. Hermione strode away from work, going the opposite direction from the tube. She let her feet guide her, wanting nothing more than to let her mind go completely blank for once, until at last she began to recognize where they had taken her.

Just up ahead was Weasleys' Wizard Wheezes. She gasped, taking in great big breaths of the night air as it occurred to her that being with Ron was exactly what she needed. Quickly she ran inside, calling out his name. A few seconds passed before she found him, bent over a box of Fever Fudge near the back. Ron smiled when he saw her, and managed, “Hullo, lov-” as she yanked him up by his shirtsleeve and hauled him into the storeroom.

“What the hell, Hermione?” He chuckled at her antics, and then sobered. “Am I in trouble?”

Rather than respond, she slithered up his body, kissing him roughly, nipping at his lips until he finally kissed her back. Her mouth became frenzied, her hands running wildly across his body, feeling how the muscles tensed beneath her fingers. Madly she tore away at his clothes, desperate to see the bare flesh twitch and harden because of her touch. _It’s been so long…_

Her right hand rubbed down his chest, past his belt, continuing down to the front of his pants, where she felt him hardening. She squeezed him encouragingly. Ron let out a high-pitched wail, his eyes bulging nearly out of his skull as he shrank away. The appalled look he gave her, as though he’d seen his mother naked, would have been funny if it wasn’t happening to her.

Hermione didn’t understand. How could she be so unfortunate as to find the only man under twenty-five who was opposed to sex?

“What’s wrong with you, Hermione?”

“Me?! What’s wrong with you, you idiot! Why won’t you ever make love to me anymore?”

“I told you why.” Ron stood partially dressed, completely flabbergasted by her behaviour. It only incensed her further.

“But it’s ridiculous!” Hermione spun away, stomping for emphasis.

“No, it’s not. It’s what’s right – and you agreed with me,” he countered, still looking quite confused by everything. “We shouldn’t have in the first place. Not that I didn’t want to, or didn’t enjoy it,” he continued quickly before she could reply. “It was wonderful.”

Hermione turned back to see the childish lopsided grin he offered, which was soon replaced by a furious blush which spread down his neck. “But we should’ve been married first.”

Utterly defeated, she plopped herself down onto a crate of daydream charms. Ron squatted beside her, taking her hand in his, the other cupping her face. She wasn’t aware she was crying until she felt him wiping the tears away.

“Hermione,” he tried again, quietly. “Why don’t we elope?” Despite her incredulous look, Ron rushed forward. “I’ve been saving up what I make here, like you said. It’s enough we could go away, maybe to Scotland, get married and come back after the weekend. Maybe stay longer, if you like. Don’t you think we’ve put it off long enough?

“George and Bill and Percy, even Ginny’s married now. Charlie, though, there’s no hope for him, Mum says,” he laughed, grinning again. Sheepishly he went on. “They’ve done it and started families. Aren’t you ready to start…with me?”

She gaped at him, resentful of his sincerity, his simplicity. How was it he was able to do that, to make her feel guilty for wanting to be with him? You are guilty of something much worse and he deserves better than you, her subconscious supplied. The tears intensified. Hermione sat there for a long time, near hysteria, while Ron attempted to hold her. She struggled out of his arms, lurching up, all the while shaking her head and muttering, “Sorry,” as she ran from the store.

Once again, she arrived home later than she would have preferred, missing supper and feeling like an utter whore. Maybe this was all a mistake, attempting to heal herself. Was there really any shame in seeing a professional?

The thought alone brought forth a foul taste in her mouth. She spent an inordinate amount of time in the lavatory, mostly staring into the mirror, ashamed of her own reflection and desperately resisting the vial behind it. She brushed her teeth longer than necessary and eventually departed, calmer than when she first entered, but no better.

There were more than enough nights when Hermione had to turn her wand against herself in order to induce sleep, sometimes going so far as to irritate the surface, but always achieving the desired ending and thus sleeping through the night. The nightmares were so frequent lately that she worried how terrible this first night without some sedative would go. All too often she dreamed about death and war and being alone and afraid. Now and again, she recalled appearances of Draco in her dreams, both good and bad, and more often than she dreamed of Ron. Hermione felt a pull deep in her belly when she thought of Draco, and increased her speed. Thinking about him, dreaming about him, wasn’t something she allowed herself to do outside of her bed.

As her climax hit finally and exhaustion set in, it occurred to Hermione that not only did Draco make her life more interesting and exciting in many ways, but that his absence would make it devastating.

 **FRIDAY**

Bright and early Friday morning she was back at work, determined not to let anything distract her and to finish the week stronger than it began. She tried to recall a week worse than this one when Harry appeared in her cubicle doorway just before noon.

“I’m sorry, Harry, really I am, but I can’t take lunch today. I’m so behind,” she sighed, nearly collapsing onto her desktop.

“We need to talk, Hermione,” Harry infused urgency into her name, causing her to stop shuffling the parchment stacks that towered on her otherwise neat desk. She was terrified to hear what he had to say but knew she couldn’t refuse. “It’s important.”

With Harry at her side, it took almost no time at all to make their way through the sea of Ministry officials who were also dashing out for a quick lunch, and then to be seated at a nearby café. She ordered a meal she knew she wouldn’t be able to ingest, just to have something else to look at instead of him. The unappetizing food had already arrived and Hermione was poised above her salad before Harry spoke again.

“How long, Hermione?”

Fearful that she knew what he was referring to, but hopeful she was simply overreacting, she disregarded it while continuing to pick out the onions. He repeated himself, so she asked for clarification. Through her lashes, she watched him shift uncomfortably, hunching forward as though prepared to share some great secret that he thought better of sharing, even with her. Merlin, she wished he would. Unconsciously she mimicked his move, and with a tremendous sigh, gave him her full attention.

“How long have you…and Malfoy been…?”

The open question was held suspended between them along with her heart that ceased to beat until both fell rapidly down into the pit of her stomach. All the café sounds disappeared, the clinking of dishes, the steady growing hum of conversations. Everything waited in sick fascination, it seemed, for her to answer, and even though she knew her lines, the words would not come out.

She knew her silence was enough to confirm Harry’s suspicion. There had been a small fleeting and desperate hope in his green eyes, but it died when she did not deny the unspoken accusation. Hermione wanted nothing more than to revive that hope, but it was entirely too late for anything to be salvaged.

It was then that the waitress descended, breaking the tension long enough for Hermione to sit back and catch her breath. She couldn’t hear whatever Harry said, but the girl left without further ado. Cautiously she cut her eyes towards Harry, finding him staring down at his untouched plate. Apparently, neither had any appetite left. A tremble began in her hands, clanking her fork against the salad dish, so she quickly dropped the noisy utensil, choosing instead to clutch the napkin across her lap. Without her consent, her voice found its way out.

“Please,” she whimpered.

So much was spinning through her head during that instant: how much she wished she were anywhere else; how much she loved and respected Harry, who was more than a best friend or brother to her. He was the same for Ron, whom she supposedly loved and intended to spend the rest of her life with, eventually having as many children as arguments, living beyond their means in a meagre home constructed mostly from love. Panic set in again as did the crying. It was Ron’s dream, not hers, but she was a coward to let it go as far as it had. Everything was a lie and not what she wanted.

“You haven’t been yourself lately,” Harry began, extracting her excuses from the recesses of her addled brain. “You’re a smart girl, so tell me,” he paused, sighing, “what happens now?”

How can someone have no effect on you beyond repulsion for so long, and then one day have the only effect, she asked herself when she was heading home after lunch. So much for finishing the week strong. It’s a perverse effect, hating someone for so very long, all the while he insidiously burrows deep inside, until resistance is completely impossible. You never see it until it’s happened. All the complications he creates become invisible and suddenly it’s difficult to live without him.

Even her reasoning left Hermione feeling the worse for wear.

She slept for hours, well past nightfall and into the evening, awaking sometime after midnight. Her stomach growled, protesting her poor treatment, so she padded into the kitchen for something to satisfy it. On her way through the living room, she looked outside.

Down below, far from the street lamp, stood Draco Malfoy, watching her window. He couldn’t see her, not directly, but she could tell he knew she was there, watching him as well, waiting to be invited in. Something stirred inside her stomach, something akin to fear and desire, but mostly made up from regret. Hermione wasn’t certain if she regretted him being down there on her street, looking to her for some sign, or if she regretted ever letting him up in the first place.

Either way, she let him in. Neither of them was willing to take the lead, so they ended up lying in bed together, facing one another, fully clothed, and saying nothing. Hermione was fascinated by his eyes, looking closely to see the slightly darker line of grey surrounding his irises, distinguishing the difference between two shades of almost white in the gloom. She never asked him what he found so fascinating when he looked at her, afraid of what his answer would not be.

So many unanswered questions rallied in her head. As complicated as her life was, Draco Malfoy convinced her it was simple enough just to be near him, as wrong as it was, and no matter who was hurt. Except she cared too much and knew their time had to end. She closed her eyes and rolled away. His hand ghosted down the length of her back, stilling her for a few seconds. As if his fingers were flexing her vocal cords, she spoke.

“We can’t meet like this anymore,” she said. “I can’t keep doing this to him. I don’t know what to do.”

“Your mood swings are giving me whiplash, Granger. If that’s the kind of relationship I was after, I’d have shagged a fucking Blast-Ended Skrewt!” Roughly, he jumped from the bed, slamming the door behind him. Hermione sat on the bed, ignoring his tantrum in the other room. She stood up. Let him have his fit, she thought, but this has to end.

Draco stormed back into the bedroom, blocking her exit, his nostrils flared, and his eyes churning. “Tell me one thing, Granger, before you chuck me out.” Despondently she turned his way. “What was your purpose in dangling me on all this time?”

“What?”

“You heard me! It’s always some kind of mind game with you, playing with me…”

“ _I’m_ playing with you,” she asked, incredulous. “You’re the one telling me we’re done this afternoon, yet who showed up at my door tonight?” She shoved past him. In the kitchen she yanked open a lower cupboard and pulled out a bottle of whiskey. She poured herself a drink and chucked it back hard, relishing the quick burn down her throat.

“You wanted me here! Or else you wouldn’t have even known I was down there. It’s always been about what you wanted, _when_ you wanted it. So just tell me, once and for all, why me? Why are you ruining my life with your shit?”

Hermione laughed humourlessly. “Your life is wonderful, Malfoy,” she hissed, glaring at him. “I’ve seen the papers, you and your precious Astoria out on the town, doing your charity work.” Her fingers formed ditto marks in the air. “Don’t act like you’ve lost anything at all in this sick sideshow we’ve got going here. Really, you should be thanking me, for ending it. Cheating on her must be difficult,” she mocked. “Now you can move on with her and forget everything that came before.”

“Is that right? Well, where the bloody hell do _you_ get off talking about _me_ cheating? Hmm? You started this, if you recall. So don’t stand there crying your eyes out to me. Why not call up Weasley? Have him take care of your needs!” Draco grabbed at the bottle, fighting it away from her and winning. He took a long gulp before adding under his breath, “As if he could, ‘cause Merlin knows I’ve had a helluva time managing it.”

“You leave him out of this!”

“Why should I? We’re lovers; everything is fair game. In fact, I feel a close affinity to him, thanks to you,” he drawled.

“Ron’s perfect -”

“Oh, yes, he’s fucking wonderful! If he’s so perfect, why the bloody hell are you shagging me?”

“I said, he’s perfect,” she screeched over Draco’s bellowing voice. The final word hung in the air between them, as deadly as a curse shot from her trembling lips, lacerating her own heart. “And he deserves much better than the likes of me.”

All the space surrounding them shrunk, eliminating room to breathe. For a moment, Hermione was certain the room itself was closing in on her, and would soon blot her out of existence and save her from herself. The moment lasted longer than it should, neither of them moving.

“I don’t care to consider,” he breathed harshly, at last, “what that means for me.” Draco sagged, and then set the bottle down on the counter. Hermione squeezed her eyes shut, forcing everything back into the recesses and shadows. She heard him walking away, but she couldn’t decide if she hoped he was leaving the room or her. All she could think was that she was failing an exam, something that despite all the studying and preparation, she was ultimately not equipped to handle.

“I’m done playing second best to Weasley. I look at Astoria,” he sniffed. Her eyes opened to find him deflated on her sofa. A tug behind her navel urged her towards him. Maybe it was the familiar, heartbreaking sadness radiating off him, or perhaps the defeated tone in his voice that made her go to him. “And she’s as vibrant as a fucking Deluminator. Every woman’s the same – nothing but galleons in their eyes, no spirit.”

Hermione choked, feeling the saliva pooling in her mouth. She turned to give him a look that asked, “What do you want from me?”

“What I’m saying,” Draco swallowed, “is I want more.”

“What if I don’t have any more to give?” she whispered, sensing the oncoming nausea.

“You have everything,” he looked directly at her, “to give.”

“I’m damaged goods,” she said, wiping the outside of her mouth, her head spinning, unable to look at him any longer. His large warm hand reached for her face, the thumb rubbing next to her eye, coaxing her to see him.

“Even damaged you’re more valuable than anything to me, Hermione.”

“Oh, please!” She shook him off, stumbling up from her seat. “Don’t sit there and tell me you want me, because you and I both know you’d never be seen in public with a filthy _Mudblood_.”

“Things change,” he insisted, following her with his eyes.

“Not like that, they don’t. Your prejudice is ingrained, Draco, and you’ll perpetuate that hatred to your children.”

“No, I-”

“Because Merlin knows there _must_ be a Malfoy heir to continue the legacy of blood purity!” Snot was running down into her mouth, the bile warm on her tongue. She couldn’t see through her tears. Quickly, she dashed towards the toilet, and thankfully, he stayed where she left him. Hermione retched, her stomach turning inside out for a very long time. Blindly, she reached for a towel to clean up her sick.

“You are just another symptom of everything bad that’s happened to me in this world,” she cried out. “Everything Voldemort took away from me – both him and his monsters, like your father – you all robbed me of a decent childhood!” She rolled over on the floor, leaning against the cabinet to look down the hall where she believed he was still waiting. “Because of you I’m nothing of what I was, reducing to potions and pills and lurid acts with the likes of _you_! All I have to do is take another pill to send you away, Malfoy! Maybe if I take enough…”

The words died on her lips, unable to bring herself to actually finish the threat. Wouldn’t do any good to say it anyway, she reasoned. Draco Malfoy was as much the poison as he was the cure. How could there possibly be a happy ending?

“Won’t say I understand, Hermione,” his voice carried softly down the hall. “Because I don’t – I really don’t. All I know is that Weasley is a lucky man, having more loved ones than he can count on both hands.” He appeared then down the hallway, his head and shoulders slumped forward, staring down at his socked feet, shoes hanging off two fingers. “Whereas I’ve only the one.”

After he left, when she was alone in her cold apartment with nothing but her guilt to cover her, she wondered where Draco Malfoy could fit into her life. In the crevices Ron left behind, she supposed, whereas she fell completely through the cracks of it, down into the void.

 **SATURDAY**

The next day was spent entirely testing out the potions she had researched. There were five in total, but only a few could be completed right away, so she set about in her kitchen with her cauldron. Brewing was soothing for Hermione, measuring out exact portions, increasing and decreasing the heat beneath her worn cauldron, the pungent smell of the ingredients. It gave her hands something to do, requiring a certain level of concentration, while freeing up another part of her mind to dwell on things she probably shouldn’t.

Like Ron.

Earlier that morning he had called over the Floo, but she pretended to not be home. She wasn’t ready to address her behaviour on Thursday. Hearing his voice from the other room, she could tell he hadn’t spoken with Harry. Yet. Everything was ruined; it was just a matter of time before it all came out. But was there any way to mend what she had severed? More importantly, did she want to?

She loved Ron, had for more years than she could remember, but she was unhappy. It wasn’t his fault – none of this was. And, if she allowed herself a magnanimous moment, it wasn’t completely her fault either. The responsibility to make it all better was hers, though, so she had to think, had to figure out what to do. Ron loved her, but she doubted how strong that love would be once he found out about Draco.

As kind as he was, Ron was also extraordinarily jealous. He would go ballistic, she was certain. Her arm ached from turning the sludge in the cauldron, impatient for it to turn from blue to red, watching and waiting for the change. When at last it did, it was time to add the rat spleens.

He wanted a large family, as big as his was growing up. She imagined the pair of them growing older, her life as a mother to a houseful of boys with her bushy hair and his bombastic temper. Everyday spent cooking enough food for an army, cleaning a rickety house that was constantly being repaired in a half-arsed manner, children constantly underfoot. She never knew what having siblings was like. Going away to Hogwarts wasn’t the same thing, she argued. Even though there were times in her life when she wished she hadn’t been an only child, those moments were quite rare. If she was completely honest with herself, Hermione had never actually been interested in having children. Ron, however, wanted them terribly, and he was ready to push the matter.

Somewhere in the back of her mind, Hermione wondered if her affair with Draco had been her subconscious’ way of rejecting that future.

Draco was another beast all together. She could argue with herself, and come up with a thousand excuses for why and how it began, but ultimately she knew it was because he was there when she needed someone. It had nothing to do with who he was then or now. He represented the forbidden path, the dangerous choice. Being with him was exciting and wicked – the opposite of who she was. Her dalliance with Draco was a chance to forget herself and simply enjoy another person.

But then emotions got in the way.

Hermione sat down on a stool from the bar, waiting her concoction boil, staring at the keys Draco had left behind on the counter. She recalled the things he said last night. Draco Malfoy was a liar, a former Death Eater and a bully. He cursed people and tried to kill Professor Dumbledore. The past swept her away, taking her back to Malfoy Manor when Bellatrix Lestrange tortured her. He had been there, watching nearby, doing nothing. She flinched at the memory. Once, after they had had sex in her bed, she couldn’t remember exactly when, he brought it up. In an uncharacteristically roundabout way, he apologized. At the time she wrote it off as post-coital pillow talk, yet after last night, she wasn’t as certain as she was before.

The secrecy was killing her. For a moment, she attempted to imagine it all from his perspective, sneaking around with a _Mudblood_. She shook her head, frowning. No, he never said that, hadn’t for a very long time, not since they had been together anyway. She wondered when he’d stopped. Draco was just as tired of the charade as she was, or at least he wanted her to believe he was. Hermione laughed mirthlessly as she pictured the pair of them having dinner with his parents, just meters away from where she’d been tortured nearly to death. It was absolutely ludicrous.

The potion began to smoke, waking her from her reverie. Frantically she cleared the air of black smoke, coughing, her eyes watering from the stench. She extinguished the flames and set the cauldron aside to cool. Hermione ran into the living room, grabbing the newspaper to help fan the smoke out the window. Soon the air cleared and she threw herself down on the sofa. Absently she glanced at the paper, noting it was Harry’s from the other day.

Roughly nine months ago, the Americans began a war against the terrorists who attacked the World Trade Center and the Pentagon. She remembered hearing about the attack when it happened, but knew nothing about the war itself. She read the article again, skipping over the nonsensical bits. So many men and women had lost their lives. Countries throughout the world offered their support and sympathy, and now they were at war. Hermione shuddered, recalling the war against Voldemort, the fear and agony, the uncertainty and dread. She never wanted to go through that again. Since then she’d shoved her head in the sand, ignoring everything. Somehow, she had shut news of the Muggle war out completely, like so many things she was discovering.

Like work. She hated her job, but it was easier to continue to do it day after day rather than to do something else. Trouble was, she wasn’t sure anymore what she did want to do, so nothing improved. It had become easier to sit back and let the world pass by, never challenging anything that came her way. Fighting was useless, and change was too difficult.

Her thoughts flew back to Draco, imagining him there beside her on the sofa, drinking coffee and reading the paper. She smirked at the very idea of a domesticated Draco Malfoy. He let her have her way, nearly every time. That wasn’t how she remembered him. Her recent self-awareness affected him as well; he was making demands of her that were never addressed before. Or, perhaps she had just ignored them, as well.

 **SUNDAY**

By Sunday afternoon, the potion she’d successfully made was ready to ingest. Before she could take it, however, she had to come clean. She called Ron through the Floo and asked him over. Within the hour he was there, happy to see her and bearing chocolates. They both knew they were really for him, but she went along with the façade. She performed as expected and offered the chocolates back to him, which he devoured noisily. Hermione delayed her reason for calling him over long enough so that he could enjoy the candy and then some, but when he tried to kiss her, she knew it was time to confess.

Without preamble, Hermione blurted out that she was having an affair and with whom.

Before she decided to tell Ron the truth, she had imagined every possible reaction. There would be outrage, denial, some things might be broken. She had taken precautions by casting a _Muffliato_ around the apartment, as well as Colloportus, to prevent the neighbour’s involvement. She had even briefly considered putting up a _Confundus_ charm on the entire floor, but thought better of it. The only thing she wasn’t prepared for was his silence. It was unnatural, not to mention unnerving. He stood up, shell-shocked, and took a few steps around the room. There was nothing she could do but wait him out.

She didn’t have long to wait after all.

“How did it start?” he whispered, his anger growing into a shout as his face reddened terribly. “No, you know, really I don’t _want_ to know!” Hermione watched him pace, waiting for him to ask what she knew was inevitable. Finally, he settled across the room from her and she knew he was ready.

“I’m not sure how it began,” she said, rushing on. “No, I mean, I know when, and where…and how…but I don’t know how. He kissed me, God only knows what provoked him to do it, but he did. _We_ did. And I felt…”

“Please,” Ron sneered, his face twisting wretchedly. “Don’t tell me thi-”

“- relieved,” Hermione finished. Her body began to tremble, her hands tugging on the hem of her shirt, stretching and picking, desperate to have some purpose. She glanced up at Ron’s shock. If she had flung a bludger at his stomach, she couldn’t have hurt him worse. His rosy lips spread wider, a deep gash against his bloodless face, his eyes completely missing in his grimace.

She felt sadistic, but continued because it was time.

“It became like an experiment, to see what would provoke a similar … reaction, what … stimuli,” her story halted repeatedly as she carefully chose words not meant to hurt him further but still fully explain. Even though she had rehearsed this in her head, she was not ready to lose Ron.

Ron was lost the first time she slept with Draco, and they all knew it.

“You’ve made a cuckold out of me,” he said. For a moment, Hermione was distracted with surprise at Ron even knowing such a word, then a small voice in her head rationalized that the Weasley’s old-fashioned ways accounted for such language. She was less ashamed at thinking this about Ron than that the voice in her head was eerily similar to Draco’s.

Hermione plunged ahead with her confession, telling him more than he wanted to know obviously, and many times, she had to almost scream to penetrate his defences against it. She kept it as clinical yet honest as possible, taking all the blame. Occasionally he denied her words, rejecting both what she was saying and each time she moved to touch him. How she managed to get it all out without tears she had no idea, and she continually tamped down the voice that accused her of clearing her own conscience at Ron’s expense.

He refused to look at her and after what seemed like forever, he turned to leave and she was terribly afraid it would be the last time she ever saw Ronald Weasley.

The door slammed shut, ringing out like an Unforgiveable directed straight into Hermione’s heart. But the wound was not fatal; she would live through this, and now she knew that was far worse than dying from it. The last five years she had been picking away at her dying heart, little by little, until all that was left was a bitter core of self-hate, incapable of healing or caring.

Hermione collapsed on her coffee table, sobbing hysterically at last, both arms limp against her thighs. Blue veins ran up and down the length, back and forth from her dead heart. It amazed her how the body could continue on when there was no longer any reason to.

None of it mattered, she decided. All their friends who lost everything years ago, they had families and futures and deserved to live, but what did she have? Adolescent memories comprised of impending terror and anxiety, a fear of death and expulsion weighing every year heavier on her shoulders. A childhood sweetheart whom she finally abused too much and was now forever lost. Parents who distrusted her to the point that they kept their correspondence down to a few annual postcards, quick dashes of hesitant expressions of their lives now, bearing a trace of conditional love. They would never forget what she did, in the name of protection and love, no matter how often they said they’d forgiven her. She’d violated them, and they all knew that forgiveness was tentative and caution would forever underlie their relationship. Now she’d done the same to Ron.

There was no one who loved Hermione and it was all her own doing.

Unbidden, Draco came to mind. Bile rose in her throat, remembering Ron’s crumpled face when she admitted to the affair. She scoffed. _Affair_ was a too simple, too clean word for something as sordid and inappropriate as what they had. Still, she couldn’t bring herself to blame him entirely. Hermione recalled the night at the Ministry, when the crowd and the wine became too much and she had to escape; her heart ripping through her chest, begging for freedom, spurring her to run, run, run away.

So much of what exactly happened next had been blurred so that all she was certain of was that she had been alone in the alley, retching and crying, and then she wasn’t alone anymore. He held her firmly, as though they were friends, as though he was Harry and he truly cared about her. And she allowed herself to feel … safe, for the first time in so very, very long.

That was the moment things changed in her mind. There was…compassion, for lack of a better word, pouring out from his normally cold and malicious eyes. It was several minutes later, after being held and soothed back to some semblance of calm, that she finally met his gaze, shocked by his eyes, which never faltered, nor judged. Hermione often recalled that instant throughout their affair with wonder. Somehow he seemed to know when she needed him most, appearing in her office, in her bed, or down on the street below.

Hermione had stopped crying sometime before she walked to the window, wondering if he was there. Slowly her hand reached for the curtain, but stopped short of pulling it open.

Outwardly, when others were present, Draco carried on in his blood-purist bigoted manner, often fooling Hermione as well. But when they were alone, he was nothing but affectionate and supplicating. If she allowed herself to think too much about it, as she often did in the beginning, she would think herself into circles trying to determine who he was fooling most of all. Turned out to be quite easy to not think whenever he held her tightly, which was how she ended up in this predicament.

She turned her back on the window, anger suffusing her cheeks as she recalled some of the things he said to her in public. Hermione was not completely innocent of viciousness, either. His insults had decreased in both originality and vitriol over the years, now half-hearted at best, and it surprised her that no one had caught on to them before Harry.

Molly and Arthur’s dismayed faces swam before her eyes, imaging their disappointed looks and awkward silences. She had lost her family all over again. The tears hitched in her chest, quickly making their way up and out. Her arms wrapped themselves about her abdomen as she fell against the window. She crumpled, her fists releasing the sides of her shirt to ball instead into her eyes, attempting to block everything out permanently.

Eventually the tears dried up again, and her reddened eyes fought against the streetlight pouring in. Blinking it away, Hermione finally looked down and saw him looking up. It couldn’t have been longer than a few seconds before he lurched from the lamppost, headed towards the entry. She jumped back from the window too late. Then the door buzzed, resounding like the thunder of a forever storm. Before he could do it again, she was there, answering his call.

“What do you want?”

“Let me in.”

“No,” she whimpered.

“I can and _will_ Apparate if you don’t open this damned door,” he threatened quietly, forcefully. She acquiesced. Letting go of the door button, her hands swiped once more at her tears, running next into her hair, pushing it away from her heated face. It was less about how she looked than how she felt, made worse by his impending presence. Resignedly, she unbolted the door but didn’t open it for him, choosing instead to put some distance between herself and her lover. She wasn’t watching when he entered a short time later, but knew when he was there.

“He knows now,” Draco murmured. Hermione stiffened, straightening up taller. “Doesn’t he?” He was waiting for her to respond, likely having not moved beyond the doorway. The moment lingered too long as she anticipated his reaction, finally choosing to face the enemy and get it over with. To her astonishment, he looked almost as sick as she felt. His Adam’s apple bobbed once, then again as he swallowed.

Hermione’s gaze moved up to his mercurial eyes, which were wide and unbelievably vulnerable. Never before had she seen him so open, except possibly when they were having sex, just as he was climaxing. It was the same look, a mixture of relief and anticipation, of wonder and knowledge combined. And just like in those moments, it made her heart ache even more just to see it.

“Yes,” she breathed.

His body staggered forward before he caught himself just as suddenly. “And…?”

“And _what_?” she hissed, breaking his spell, her emotions returning to near hysteria, pulling her in every direction. Hermione spun away from him and did her best to ignore his approach.

“And what about me, Hermione?” His voice was controlled, barely. She could feel the vibrations of that control bouncing against her back, almost as strong has his grasp. “Where does that leave me?”

Hermione refused to answer him, or even look at him. Instead she picked at her shirt hem again, finding a loose thread which she worked until it grew longer and longer. The irony of destroying something necessary was not lost on her.

“You don’t love him.”

“Of course I do. Don’t be ridiculous.”

“No, you don’t, and we both know it. Even _he_ knows it now. I’ve been waiting all this time…”

“I love Ron, very much,” she bit out forcefully, the words venomous in her mouth. “We’re meant to be together. We’re getting married and, and we’ll have a, a family,” she stuttered.

“You don’t want that – any of that!”

“How would you know?” She glared at him hotly.

“Because-”

“You don’t know anything,” she laughed bitterly.

“Because I know you! If that is what you wanted, you would have been married and saddled with brats by now. You don’t want that life, or else you’d have it already. With him.”

“You have no idea what you’re talking about,” she deflected.

“Oh, I don’t, do I? Well, let’s see: _I’m_ the stud you put out for on a regular basis. I’m the one who’s there for you whenever you crumble to bits, which is more frequent than the first of late. I’m the one who pulls you up again -”

“No, actually the potions do that, thank you. You’re just another reason why I need them so terribly.”

Draco carried on as if he either didn’t hear or didn’t care what she said. “He has no clue about your condition.”

Hermione roared at this choice of words, as though he cared one speck. “ _You_ have taken advantage of my ‘condition’,” she put the sick emphasis on his word as she flung it back at him. “You used me to get back at Ron – at all of us – for whatever sick reason you hated each of us.”

“Maybe. At first.” His admission silenced her long enough for both to take several necessary breaths.

“I’m happy this has happened, you’re right, because I’m sick of being your dirty little bit on the side, your plaything! I’m sick of only getting your leftovers, Hermione. I want the whole damned thing – I deserve it, all of it! I want you in every way and believe me, I’m not accustomed to denial like you’ve given me time and time again.”

“It’s no secret how much I loathe the men in your life,” he continued, looking away. “And yes, I’ll admit that I thought about how this would destroy them both, but it won’t last. They’ll recover. The first time we kissed, I could think of nothing but you – I had to have you for my own. I was jealous of the friendship you three had, of Ron for having you, and I wanted it all. I wanted to wipe him from your mind and your heart and fill you up to brimming with only me. Because that’s what you’ve done to me.” He looked back at her, anger and sadness flowing off him in waves. “For three years now, it’s all I’ve thought about: how to make you mine. Completely. Utterly. So don’t stand there and tell me that you love _him_ and want a life _with him_ after everything between us. Don’t tell me I don’t know you, because I damn well do, as well as I know myself because you showed it all to me – the life I want, the love-” he choked.

Hermione was flabbergasted. Draco strode across to her and cupped her cheeks, his hands slipping through her forgotten tears, lifting her eyes to his level. “You don’t love him,” he whispered again. “Because I love you. You let me love you, and have you and I know I don’t fully have you yet, but one day I will. It’s coming. Telling him about us was the first step and it’s done. We can move on to the next now.”

She struggled. “I told him because I was sick of deceiving him!”

“But he _knows_ and he’s gone and you’re still here, not chasing after him!”

“What we had isn’t love,” she argued.

“Of course it wasn’t. That what I’ve been telling you.”

“I mean between you and me, Draco. You said it yourself, I’ve been using you. That’s not love.” She watched as he stood there, his brow furrowed but no longer angry. He said nothing for the longest time, instead staring down into her eyes, which she found she could not break from. Draco sighed.

“I’ve become a mad man, chasing after you, Hermione,” he said, walking away from her. The moment his back was turned to her, she found it easier to breathe again, but her heart seemed to lurch in her chest. “I’m completely at your mercy. You tell me to leave, and I’ll do it. I’ll do the best I can. If you tell me you truly do want him, I’ll leave.

“But I can’t stop how I feel for you. For the first time in my life, I can honestly empathize with the bastard. You are the most… disagreeable woman I have ever had the misfortune to know, and I can’t get enough of you.”

Coldly she finally spoke. “You better head home before your fiancée misses you.”

Draco harrumphed. “We were never engaged. Astoria’s just been…kind enough to accompany me when necessary. Reporters draw their own conclusions.”

For the umpteenth time that evening, Hermione was shocked into silence. Draco slowly walked to the door, bracing his hand against the frame as he paused one last time. “It’s impossible to love two people at once. All this time, I thought you knew that.”

What bothered her most, after watching him leave and saying nothing whatsoever, was that when he insisted he loved her, she believed him.

Things are getting better, a little each day. I just have to remember the Amitriptyline every day and not let things overwhelm me. My therapist suggested I journal every day events, as well as my life during and following the war, so that I might compartmentalize and slough off the bits that I don’t want anymore. I’m not completely certain I agree with her, but I’m at least willing to try and that should count for something.

I’ve come to understand that uncertainty isn’t an entirely bad thing, and that being prepared for the worst while hoping for the best, as clichéd as that sounds, is all the best anyone can do.

I quit my job two months ago. Now I’m taking time for myself, getting to know who I am now, which is something I avoided before. I think I’ll enroll in University come fall. Maybe taking a course or two will show me the balance I once had between being both a witch and a Muggle-born. Twice a week now, I volunteer at the local library. Perhaps I should look into that career path while in school.

After talking about it with Harry, and then Ron, it became easier to admit my shortcomings to everybody else. And, with Harry leading the way, I’ve made my peace with most of them. He really is the best friend any person could ever want to have, and I can never thank him enough for remaining my friend.

Ron, on the other hand, has been the hardest. Not that I blame him at all. It’s just going to take more time. At least he’s stopped ignoring me when we’re together with friends and family, so that’s progress. Harry’s offered to talk to him, and even though I’ve begged him not to, he still said something. Ron told me as much, on one of the rare occasions he joined us out together. He said to me, “Harry says that if I ever really loved you, I would be able to forgive you and take what I could from our friendship. Not sure I’m ready to do all that, but I’ll try.” I wanted terribly to hug him when he’d finished, but had to restrain myself. It’s too soon for all that.

Then there’s Draco.

My therapist and I spend nearly as much time discussing him as we do my mental problems. I haven’t seen him privately in a long time now, the last time being the night Ron and I broke up. Sometimes, especially late at night, when I’m left with nothing but my memories and fears, I look down at the street, a small part of me hoping to find him there, looking up. He’s never there anymore, as far as I know, but now and then, I’ll find flowers lying outside on the step. There’s never a note with any of them, but I’m certain they’re for me. Once I found a single delicate pink primrose, fragile and soft. I keep it on the windowsill, giving it as much sunlight as possible.

It never wilts.

**Author's Note:**

> Written for sapphire_phoenix (lj: phoenix_fancies) for the DMHGFicExchange.
> 
> Story Banner by Ningloreth: http://i47.photobucket.com/albums/f153/ningloreth/strawberry_kait.png
> 
> If you haven't already looked up the meaning for Primrose, it means, "I can't live without you." A special thank you to the Hawthorn & Vine Mods who helped with additional corrections! :)


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